Tom Riddle is walking down the corridor, flanked by Malfoy and Berkshire, their footsteps echoing sharply against the stone floor. You’re standing with your group of friends in the middle of the hallway, laughing about something that probably wasn’t that funny but it doesn’t matter. You feel their eyes before you hear their voices.

Tom stops just short of your group, his gaze cold and cutting. His lip curls slightly in irritation as if your mere presence is an inconvenience too large to ignore.

“Can you move?” he says flatly, his voice edged with annoyance as he looks down at you like you’re something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

He’s never liked you or any of your friends, for that matter. Not since that incident back in fifth year. You and your lot had pulled something on him and his circle, something public, humiliating, and just clever enough that no one could trace it back to you. But he knew. He always knew. And he’s never forgotten it.